


Allegro, B Flat Major

by whalersandsailors



Series: Musical Neighbors [1]
Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: (don't look into it too much), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ambiguously college age, Fluff, Gen, Lots of classical and romantic music and the men who like that, M/M, Rare Pairings, Secret Admirer, The Terror Rare Pair Week, piano man hodge, terror bingo 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-11
Updated: 2019-11-11
Packaged: 2021-01-27 08:11:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21388933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whalersandsailors/pseuds/whalersandsailors
Summary: George is freshly moved from his childhood home, ready to tackle the school year and his newfound independence all at once.Too bad he's lonely, miserable, and homesick.He turns to music when adulthood becomes unbearable, and when someone knocks at his door and leaves an anonymous note, George discovers another music lover not too far away.
Relationships: Lt George Hodgson/Lt Edward Little
Series: Musical Neighbors [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1954204
Comments: 12
Kudos: 44
Collections: The Terror Bingo (2019), The Terror Rarepair Week 2019





	Allegro, B Flat Major

**Author's Note:**

> Written originally for The Terror Rare Pair Week, Missing Moments Monday, _A Touch of Fingers_.
> 
> Coincidentally, **George Hodgson** is a prompt on my bingo card. So, mark me down for both please!!

Within the first month of moving into the studio flat — mold painted over on the plaster ceiling, windows nearly impossible to open, a corner kitchen with yellowed linoleum and mismatched drawer handles — the allure of independent living has faded for George.

It was quite a magical occasion, packing up his suitcases and boxing up his clothes, his model airplanes and ships, his large vinyl collection, and the piles of chaotically organized sheet music. Surrounded by his treasures, each artifact summing up the life of young man flying the coop and experiencing his first taste of freedom, George surprises himself by sitting in the middle of the floor and crying.

It has been awful, were he honest with himself.

The street light outside glares into his window at night. And if the light were not bad enough, the constant of hum of traffic contributes to his insomnia. The mildew was bearable for the first day, but George has since acquired an itching ache inside each nostril. His next door neighbors consist of a waspish young man to the right and his beady-eyed boyfriend who occasionally visits, an older gentleman across the hall who scowls at George whenever he has the misfortune to cross paths with him, and a hermit to the left who apparently never leaves their flat at any time of day, perhaps only to walk their phantom dog that George swears he has heard scuffling and barking at odd hours of the night.

Sleep has become as elusive as a rare bird, thanks to George’s living environment. Adding to the stress, his workload at school has also blindsided him. It is no unusual day for him to miss deadlines, forget assignments, and feel outrageously stupid alongside his classmates. Worse yet, George can add another nail in the coffin of his budding adulthood by way of his ever-decreasing funds. Even with the supplemental income his aunts send him, George has taken to giving music lessons on an unreliable keyboard in the attic room of a church to uninterested, pimpled teenagers in order to get by.

And worst of all, George thinks as he sniffs and wipes at his face, he impulsively threw away what few pennies he had. He looks up, assessing the large dusty box of ivory keys and steel wires, where he had to cram it against the back of his couch, forming a makeshift wall that separates his “bedroom” from his “living room.”

The piano is in poor condition, hence its cheap price. It is small, upright and brown with faded gold detail on the legs. George spotted it during his morning commute, standing defiantly in a secondhand shop window, the price advertised on a sign taped to the glass. George had purchased the instrument with the vague notion that he might move his piano lessons from the church to his room, or at the very least give himself the chance to practice at home rather than the studios at school.

It has been a week since the man from the shop dropped off the instrument. It came without a bench, so George makes do with the chair from his breakfast table. When he first sat down at the keyboard and played a few cursory notes, he flinched at the sour sound that emanated from the beast. His neighbor — the thin, sickly one — had knocked a few times on the wall, expressing his displeasure at the noise as well. George couldn’t blame him. The piano sounded like a dying animal.

Taking out his tool set, thanking whatever deity or saint would listen to him that this was skillset he even had, he had opened the top of the piano and got to work. Tuning the piano has turned out to be an arduous, thankless task, and every day George sits down to play, his fingers inevitably fall upon a D that falls flat or an E whose note sours when it hits the air.

Still, he feels attached to the piano, the longer he works on it. He pulls himself to his feet so that he may run his hand along the top of the piano, noting each scratch and dent in the wood. He wonders what sort of life the piano led before he purchased it; how it ended up in the shop, as donation or rubbish, and why it was neglected for so long.

The piano, with all her kinks, will make George’s life for the better. He tells himself that the worst of his trouble will pass, even if the promise rings somewhat hollow in his mind. The last thing he wants is to fail out of all his classes, run out of money, and return home to his aunts, his tail between his legs.

Sniffling, he manages to smile as he thumbs the pages of the music left on the rack; a transcription of Bach’s _Ave Maria _to piano. He reminds himself of the time he will save, having an instrument, on which he can practice and with which he can give lessons, just a short distance from his bed. What does it matter if his neighbors object? The worst they can do is complain to the landlord, who will do nothing, of _that_ George is certain.

He sits at the keyboard and plays the first notes of _Ave Maria_, slow and thoughtful. A screeching moan slithers from the back panel as his fingers hit a bad key. He cringes at the sound, but with a deep breath, he closes his eyes and continues.

The song flows from his fingertips from memory, the melody a soothing balm in spite of the occasional flat note. The acoustics of his room, all hard surfaces save the couch and bed, magnify the music to a rich timbre bouncing against the walls and flooding the space. _Ave Maria _was one of George’s first recital pieces as an adolescent, dressed up in a suit that closed too tightly around the neck and trousers several centimeters too short when he unexpectedly hit a growth spurt. He had been so nervous that his hands shook when he walked the short distance to his piano bench from offstage. When he bowed to the audience, he made the stupid mistake of looking up and seeing all the expectant faces of family and guests, all turned toward the stage, at him.

His aunts were in the second row and smiled encouragingly at him when his wide eyes passed over them. Swallowing, he took to the keyboard and with a similarly halting start, his anxieties soon dissipated as each note cascaded over him like the invigorating spray of a light summer rain on one’s face.

Lost as he is in the music and memory, it takes him by surprise when he reaches the end. His fingers are poised over the keyboard, ready to continue even as George is jarred back to the present.

He sighs and places his hands on his lap. Knowing fully well that he should be tackling some of the week’s required reading, he leans down to his box of music and flips through his selection.

He flinches when a sharp knock rings against his door.

“Are you serious?” he mutters to himself, looking over his shoulder to glare at his door. “It is the middle of the day. A little music won’t _kill_ you.”

Taking a moment to mutter a few more obscenities to himself, George stands and goes to his door. It won’t do him any favors to ignore his neighbors, abrasive as the whole bunch seem to be.

He flings the door open, with more force than necessary.

“Now, see here—”

There’s no one there.

Confused, George steps fully out of his apartment, looking each way. There isn’t a soul in sight. Maybe he imagined the knock. Stress can do that, he reasons. Makes one see and hear things that aren’t there. He turns to go back inside when he sees paper lying on his doormat.

Frowning, he stoops to pick it up.

“Wonderful,” he says under his breath, as he closes his door behind him and unfolds the card. “They’ve resorted to writing anonymous complaints.”

Hidden in the folds of the paper, ripped from a spiral-bound notebook, is a note. The words are small, written quaintly in neat, looping cursive.

_May I humbly request from the very skilled pianist the prelude of Bach’s ‘Well-Tempered Clavier’?_

A blush erupts on George’s face.

This must be a joke; one of his neighbors playing a mean prank on him.

Though, he thinks to himself, as he sinks back into his chair. It’s not a ridiculously farfetched request. He was playing Bach, and the note-writer requests another of Bach’s work. He looks at the note again, his eyes lingering on _v__ery skilled._

A snort bubbles from him before he can stops it, and the stress of the last few weeks land upon him with crushing weight as tears and laughter spill from him in equal amounts. The note falls from his fingers as he leans his face into his hands, trying to compose himself even when he wants nothing more than to lie on his floor, crying and laughing for the remainder of the day.

Finally, the quakes and tremors cease, and he wipes his face.

“A Well-Tempered Clavier,” he says as he looks through his selection of Bach sheet music.

He knows the song, not _well_, but enough that it is passable. Feeling a similar surge of stage fright, much like his recitals of years past, George takes a deep breath and plays.

In melody and tempo, it is similar to _Ave Maria_, and thus George relaxes the farther he goes, pausing only when he struggles to turn a page of the sheet music. Once the prelude ends, he stops and waits, half-expectant to hear another knock at his door.

There is only silence, though it is followed by a disturbance as he hears the sickly man next door arguing with someone. Furniture groans as it’s shoved across the floor, and something shatters. George – too accustomed to even wince – stares glumly at the wall.

Maybe he did imagine the knock, but the note had to come from _someone _in the building. George tries to put it out of his mind while he flips over to another page of _Clavier _and begins playing another piece. He has a lesson soon, in the dusty attic room, but he has a few minutes to spare before he has to leave.

The arguing next door escalates to such an intense volume that George stops mid-song. He casts his eyes heavenward, praying to god or whoever lives on the floor above him, that whatever is causing the fuss next door will _please _calm down by the evening.

George closes the piano’s fallboard and decides to head out early, to escape his neighbors as well as the mystery of the note, where it lies unobtrusive and tantalizing on the floor by the piano. He checks that all his needed materials are in his bag before he pockets his wallet and flip phone. He buttons his jacket, adding a scarf and gloves, since the October air has been increasingly nippy.

He stops at his door, his hand on the knob as he hears someone either entering or exiting their flat. As interested as he is about the note-writer’s identity, George does not want a confrontation with a different neighbor. He waits, listening to someone fiddling with their keys and the whine of a dog. His curiosity piqued, George presses his face to the peep hole.

Through the fishbowl glass, George is able to make out a large, black dog leashed to a lean, sharply dressed man. To George’s disappointment, the man’s face is averted as he looks down at the dog, clicking with his tongue and tugging on his leash as he walks past George’s door.

There is a brief second when a heavy-browed, dark-eyed face looks up, and George stumbles back from his door.

It was like their eyes met, and even though it’s silly to think the man would know George was standing there watching him, he feels as though he has been caught red-handed.

He was correct about the dog, at least, but that’s little consolation when he realizes how young the reclusive man next door is.

_And attractive. _

George hates himself for thinking it.

Frowning, he yanks his bag over his shoulder, opens the door, and promptly steps on another note. For a couple seconds, he stares, dumbfounded. When he picks it up and unfolds it, it reads, _Thank you. I was worried that you wouldn’t see the note or know the song. You play well, and I appreciate your accepting the request_.

There is no name or other signature at the bottom, and feeling flustered, George shoves the note into his pocket as he locks his door and hurries out of the building.

He tries to not be distracted as the afternoon wears on, determined to not waste time wondering which of his neighbors the note-writer may be, whether or not he is someone he has seen before. A part of George considers the chance of the note-writer being the handsome man who lives next door, but when the idea makes him freeze in the middle of his piano lesson, his student turning toward him confusedly, George shakes the thought from himself, desperate to not dwell on such impossibilities.

***

When George returns home that evening, he unlocks his door at the same moment his neighbor begins unlocking his from inside. George pauses, taking his time as he removes the key and turns the knob, hoping that he might have a chance to speak with his mysterious neighbor.

However, it is doomed to be a repeat of that afternoon. The door opens an inch. George perks up when he catches a glimpse of the man’s face. The door immediately closes, and George’s shoulders drop.

He waits a few more seconds, but when it is clear that the man is waiting for George to either leave or go inside, he sighs and enters his flat. Only when he has locked and deadbolted his door does he hear his neighbor leave.

Once again, George peers through the peep hole.

There is no glance at his door this time as the man hurries by, head down and both hands in his pockets.

George slumps against his door, feeling dejected. Another neighbor who dislikes him, and he didn’t even get the chance to speak with him. Stopping by his kitchen to heat the kettle for tea, George takes a seat at his piano and begins playing a slow, somber rendition of Satie. He knows he’s being self-indulgent as he imagine the ridiculous image he must present; a young, foppish man bent over his piano, playing a sad tune because he feels lonely and rejected. The guilt lessens, however, as the music does its job and calms him down.

He stops mid-melody to make his tea, with multiple spoonfuls of sugar. It’s growing late, and when George moves to pull his curtains shut, there is a knock at door.

George races so quickly to the door that his socked feet slip against the floor, and he nearly collides with the wall in his haste to answer.

He pauses just a second, patting down the sides of his jumper and swiping at his hair, before he opens the door with a shy smile.

The smile withers when it is met with the glowering face of the man from across the hall.

“Oh,” George says, the disappointment clear in his voice. “Good evening, Mr. Stanley.”

“Would you refrain from making noise at this hour? Some people,” he says with a huff, barreling over any attempt at niceties, “have to work early.”

George is vaguely aware that Stanley leaves the building around three or four o’clock in the morning, dressed in light green scrubs under his coat. George met him once when he returned home late (early) one night (morning) after a school event. Slightly sloshed, George did not attempt to exchange pleasantries with Stanley, and in his usual fashion, Stanley had sneered at the smell of wine and gave a wide berth to George when they passed each other in the hall. 

“Oh, sorry about that,” George says, not meaning a word of it and firmly wishing Stanley would leave. “I’ll try to be quieter. Good night!”

He closes the door before Stanley can say a word more.

“You prick,” George mutters without much heat, his disappointment overtaking any irritation he might feel.

He picks up his mug and ponders what might be the perfect, most discordant, and loud song he could play that would serve as a fitting _mind your own business_ to Stanley across the way.

In the end, he finds the daydream of doing it sufficient enough to cull his anger. Never a spiteful one by nature, George figures that Stanley needs his rest like anyone else, so he settles on his couch with his tea and tries to not dwell on it.

He nearly chokes on the tea when another knock sounds at his door. Soft and hesitant, this time, three gentle thuds against the wood.

“Popular today, aren’t you, George?” he says to himself as he drops the back of his head against the armrest of the couch.

He sets the tea aside and stands up with a groan.

What could Stanley possibly want now?

George is wise enough to check the peep hole first, but there is no scowling Stanley. Cautiously, he opens the door, and when he sees no one in the hall, he looks down.

There is another white note. Judging by his current neighbors, George seriously considers the possibility that there is a sentient ream of paper living in the utilities closet down the hall. It seems the most sensible option, all others considered.

He picks the note up and closes his door, unfolding it with (no small amount of) eagerness.

It reads, _Thank you again for earlier. Not to be intrusive, but you seem sad. I hope everything is all right. I would request another song, but that might anger Dr. Stanley more. If I may bother you with another request in the future, I’m fond of Brahms, if you are familiar with his works._

George’s heart thuds in his chest as he sits on his couch, drawing his knees tight to himself. The note has the same stiff formality as the others, but this is the first one that includes a personal mention of the note-writer. George lies back on the couch, his face flushing as he holds the note up and reads it again. Impulsively, his feet kick as he laughs and hugs the note to his chest. He sits up with a sudden idea and a burst of courage.

First, he rifles through his music, selecting a piece of Brahms that is toward the back. Admittedly, he has only played Brahms once for a recital and is otherwise unfamiliar, but should his plan work, he’ll have time to look over the music. Next, he finds a blank piece of paper, and with decidedly less neat handwriting than his anonymous correspondent, George begins to write.

_Hello, I would happily play part of Brahms’ piano concerto no. 2, though I agree with you that Mr. Stanley might find it too loud and aggressive for his tastes. I will wait and play tomorrow morning at 9, but only if you respond to this note. If it is not asking too much, I would like to meet another lover of music. _

George hesitates, worried that he is being too demanding of this stranger, who has been kind enough to extend sympathy to him.

He adds more to the bottom of the note. _Might we be friends, even if music is all that we have in common? Respectfully, George_

Folding the note over several times, George forgoes the idea of sealing it in an envelope or with tape. Before he loses his nerve, he goes to his door and places the note on his mat.

Now, all he can do is wait. He goes through the remainder of his evening as though in a daze. He spends more time tweaking the wires of the piano, eats a rather tasteless meal of microwavable pasta, resigns himself to do his required reading and written responses, and finishes his night in bed, looking over the notes of Brahms, the fast pace and technicality of the piece enough to excite George.

There has been no additional noise at his door, but George tells himself to be patient. He will check his mat in the morning.

***

Of course sleep comes sparingly to him. He wakes every hour and glares at the red glow of his clock when he checks the time. He tosses and turns, unable to make himself comfortable, and what few minutes he does sleep, his brain conjures up a motley of strange scenarios in which he meets a faceless stranger who either sweeps him off his feet or laughs in his face, all the while set on an overly bright recital stage, the murmur of the audience deafening and the flash of their cameras blinding.

Morning eventually comes, and George drags himself from bed with a groan. His first class isn’t until noon, and the stress of his dreams was successful in dampening any enjoyment George might feel for the morning.

George tells himself to not get excited for something that was likely to never happen, and preparing himself for the inevitable disappointment, he goes to his door and checks the mat. He picks up the note without an ounce of anticipation, expecting to see nothing other than his own ridiculous olive branch thrown back into his face.

He opens it to the familiar looping cursive of yesterday, and a thrill surges through his body as he closes the door, his eyes racing over the note. It is the note-writer’s handwriting, tucked a few inches beneath George’s ostentatious letter. George feels slightly embarrassed reading over his own note, but it disappears quickly as his eyes skim over the stranger’s words,

_I would like that. I will be home tomorrow. I work from home, in fact. If I may trouble you further, the sound may travel better if you open a window. I don’t want to presume, so however you do it, I am sure I will enjoy it. I will wait for 9 o’clock._

Still no signature, which George tells himself is not important, even if he yearns to know the identity of this kind stranger.

“They answered,” George whispers, the grin splitting across his face so wide that his cheeks burn. “They _answered_.”

He dances around his kitchen, laughing when his foot accidentally kicks the chair at his piano. He looks to the clock. It is eight now, so he has an hour to prepare. He does not have the stomach for food, but George takes the time to brew a pot of coffee as he showers and dresses.

He sits at the piano, taking care to spread out the music across the front so that he will not interrupt himself with too much page-turning. He sips his coffee, black with multiple spoonfuls of sugar, as he looks over the notes, his knee bouncing and eyes glancing at the clock every few minutes.

When it is nearly time, he cleans his coffee cup at the sink, and once it is drying in the rack, he crosses the room and, gritting his teeth as he strains, opens the middle window. The air is chilly outside, but he is bundled in his jumper and woolen socks. He hugs himself and hurries back to the piano.

Again, he is at a recital. Sweat pools at the base of his neck as he eyes glaze over, the audience spanning before him. Sitting between his two aunts, the image of the note-writer takes form. George looks down at them. He imagines dark but warm eyes, a shy smile, and a hand raising up, just enough that George sees and is bolstered by their encouragement. George, equally hesitant and exultant, smiles back.

He splays his hands on the keyboard and begins to play.

The first notes are explosive and fast, leaping up against the ceiling like the rush of a gale roaring through a mountain pass. The room fades away to nothing but the piano and the stretch of his knuckles as his hands move deftly over the keys. George leans into the keyboard, his arms relaxing into his usual posture when he plays a fast melody. His feet press onto the tips of his toes, his heels tapping in time with each chord change. If he misses a key or if a note plays sour, George does not notice. He is entranced by the music itself, wrapped in a joy he has not felt in weeks. The homesickness melts away. The loneliness evaporates. The stress of school and the lack of sleep disappears as though the music itself were a medicine to his aching, tired body. A stray tear slips down his face, unnoticed by George as he lets the music carry him far away from the flat and its mold and chipping plaster and its unkind neighbors. He can think only of the melody and the note-writer, this precious and gentle stranger who requested the music.

When the song ends, George sits at the piano, breathing deeply and slowly through his mouth as though he has finished a series of sprints. Dazedly, he wipes the tear from his face. He huffs at the realization that he started crying during it all.

“You really are losing it, George,” he says with a laugh, straddling the line between giddy and distraught like a tightrope walker.

He feels more than hears the knock, this time. The high of the music and its abrupt end has left George hollow, so he cannot summon any nerves or excitement when he goes to the door and answers it.

He does, however, yelp when the wet snout of a dog lands on the inch of bare skin between the top of his sock and the bottom of his trouser leg.

“Neptune, stop that,” the man holding the leash scolds. He pulls the dog back. “I’m sorry. He gets excited meeting new people.”

George gapes at the man, half aware how stupid he must look staring open-mouthed at him. The man is not dressed to go out, as he was the day prior. He’s dressed down to a sweatshirt and ratty looking jeans, his feet encased in slippers, but he is as handsome as George’s brief glimpse of him suggested, his features sharp enough to cut.

“I’m sorry,” George says, stuttering over the words, “if I disturbed you. I realize it’s early.”

The man, in turn, gapes at George. His mouth open and closes a few times before he frowns.

“You don’t have to apologize,” he says, looking down at the dog or their feet. George can’t tell.

George continues on, “I know I’m the new kid on the block, and everyone’s irritated about the piano playing. I’ll try to keep it down. Sorry.”

Feeling a tremor in his hands and sweat collecting in embarrassing places, George starts to back up, ready to slam the door shut.

The dog, Neptune, starts to whine, restless around its owner’s legs. The man startles when George starts the close the door with another apology. He shoves a foot onto the threshold.

“Wait. You don’t have to apologize.” He drags his eyes up, which apparently takes the man a considerable amount of effort, as his eyes continue to dart from George to the door and back again. “You played what I asked for. You don’t have to be sorry.”

George stares as the words process in his mind.

“That was you?”

He slams the door open in his excitement. The noise makes the man wince and the dog bark. George stops himself, embarrassed by the childish burst, but he cannot help the grin on his face.

“You wrote those notes?”

“Yes.” The man manages a tiny smile. “I wasn’t lying when I said that you play well.”

Feeling bashful at the praise, George ducks his head, his fingers reaching to squeeze the edge of the door.

“Would you like to come in?” he asks. “I don’t have to be anywhere til later. I’ve got a fresh pot of coffee.”

Neptune whines again. There is a faint pinkness along the man’s pale cheeks, and George tries to not think too much of it.

“I would like that,” the man says, so softly that George nearly thinks he imagined it.

George happily steps aside so that the man and his dog may enter. Closing the door, he calls over his shoulder that he may sit wherever he likes. As he busies himself getting clean mugs and pouring the coffee, George tries to not feel self-conscious that the only seating options are the chair at the piano and the couch.

“How do you take your coffee?”

“Black is fine, thanks.”

He readies the mugs; one filled with black coffee, the other black with multiple spoonfuls of sugar. Sitting opposite the man on the couch, George hands him the mug. He thanks George again, the conversation lapsing into silence as they sip their coffee. A breeze slips through the open window, and with a sudden shiver, George softly exclaims as he stands to close it.

“You didn’t have to open your window, you know,” the man says with a touch of embarrassment. “It was an unfair request, considering the time of year.”

“I didn’t mind,” George rushes to say. “You said so yourself. The sound travels better that way than through walls.”

“Yes, it does.”

George sits back down, staring hard into his coffee. He starts to take a sip, stops, and turns to fully face the man. He cannot help but smile when he sees man staring deeply into his mug with a crease between his brow as though he is carefully reading tea leaves to see into his future. George swears that he is not imagining the slight blush on the man’s cheeks, and he inches closer to him on the couch.

“I feel a bit at a disadvantage, though.”

“How so?”

“You know my name, and I know your dog’s name. But I don’t know yours.”

The man wets his lips. “It’s Edward.”

“Edward,” George repeats, “I like that.”

“I like George,” he returns, the flirtation clumsy and awkward, and absolutely charming George to the tips of his ears, fingers, and toes.

“Do you play?”

Edward suddenly smiles, all teeth and flushed cheeks. “Not a bit.”

Feeling a burst of courage, his boldness having worked to his advantage thus far, George scoots close enough that their thighs touch.

“If you would like, I can play more for you.” George’s face heats up when the Edward’s eyes jump up, wide and surprised. “I’d like to practice with an audience.”

He stops himself from saying, _and a friend_, but his meaning must be clear enough. Their faces are only inches apart, and the wide smile from Edward lessens to something unsure but sweet. He sets one of his hands onto his thigh, palm up, a couple fingers gently reaching past his leg to brush against George’s. Taking the invitation, George slides their hands together. He notes the way Edward’s breath hitches when their fingers interlock.

“I would like that,” Edward says, staring at their clasped hands like it is something unexpected and beautiful.

Happiness is a strange word, George thinks, to describe what he feels at that moment, but as the mess of emotion roils inside him more powerfully than a tempest, George cannot think of anything more fitting than _joy_, as shocking and resplendent as the crescendo of a song, played with abandon and fear, the musician following the music along the edge of a precipice, ready to leap, even when he is unsure where he will land.


End file.
